


smoke and mirrors

by hotcuppa



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Heart-to-Heart, M/M, Mickey Milkovich is Bad at Feelings, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29460147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotcuppa/pseuds/hotcuppa
Summary: mickey’s never really been one to talk about his feelings. like, literally ever. through most of his and ian’s relationship, ian’s been the one that wants to talk about shit.but ian’s been giving him those stupid puppy eyes all night, and mickey knows he’s gonna have to talk about it.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 14
Kudos: 154





	smoke and mirrors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [polarispluie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/polarispluie/gifts).



> this is a birthday gift for my fav: wonkathyst!! this is the 2nd birthday of theirs that i have had the pleasure of writing a birthday fic for them!! so, to wonka: i love you, thank you for being my friend, and my life is so much better simply for having known you. 
> 
> (warnings for discussions of terry milkovich and all that he entails)

mickey’s never really been one to talk about his feelings. like, literally ever. through most of his and ian’s relationship, ian’s been the one that wants to talk about shit, while mickey is more than happy to just let his actions speak louder than words. but ian’s been giving him those stupid puppy eyes all night, and mickey knows he’s gonna have to talk about it. ian’s going to pout it out of him. 

it’s not even that he doesn’t want to talk about this with ian. he kind of already has, through a few passing comments and annoyingly watery eyes. it’s more emotion than mickey usually shows with shit like this. it’s just more so that mickey doesn’t know what the hell he’s feeling, and he feels stupid for feeling it. 

terry’s actively been trying to murder him and ian ever since they got married. he pointed a gun at mickey’s chest, burnt down the bamboo lotus, and sprayed their honeymoon suite with bullets. even before their wedding, terry was torturing him. the shit with svetlana, the beating at the alibi when mickey came out, the constant physical and verbal abuse even in between the bigger events. mickey wasn’t lying when he said terry had tortured him every single day for as long as he could remember. 

last year, he was more than ready to put a bullet in his dad’s chest. he was ready to kill the guy if it meant he could marry ian without having to worry about terry committing another hate crime. so why did it bother him to see terry paralyzed? why couldn’t he pull the trigger? why does it make his nose sting every time he thinks about it for too long?

this should be a blessing. mickey should be grateful, fucking _celebrating_ what happened to terry. he and ian should be splitting a bottle of bubbly and having multiple rounds of celebration sex just to rejoice in the fact that terry’s a fucking cripple. he doesn’t know why it doesn’t feel that way. 

down the hall, mickey hears the shower shut off, and he braces himself for what’s coming. he knows ian’s going to waltz in here with his stupid fucking puppy eyes and his stupid soft _would you take care of me if i was paralyzed?_ and mickey will cave, just like he always does. he puts up a hard front in front of others, but he’s hopeless when it comes to ian. especially when it comes to ian’s puppy eyes. 

ian’s wet footsteps start pattering down the hall and mickey’s reminded of prison, when ian would come back soaking wet and leave puddles of water on their floor, and mickey would bitch at him about it even though their floor was concrete. it’s weird how ian can make even memories of _prison_ fond ones. 

“hey,” ian says, when he finally makes it to their room, closing the door behind him. mickey just hums in response, and watches as ian drops the towel to get dressed. 

he soaks in the view because that’s _his_ view, only his, and husband privileges means staring whenever the hell he wants at whatever the hell he wants to stare at. ian never begrudges him it anyway. 

once he’s dressed, ian sits on the bed beside him, reclining backwards. his hand finds the small of mickey’s back, and because they’re in the privacy of their own room with the door closed, he leans back into the touch. 

ian asks, “you okay?” in that same stupid soft voice from earlier, and mickey almost misses hearing his fucking dad running his damn trap louder than ian could speak. 

mickey swallows hard. “yeah, man, i’m fine.”

“okay.” ian’s fingers splay wider on his back and start a gentle pace, drawing small circles on his skin, and mickey wonders what the hell he did in his life to deserve such tenderness from somebody so fucking good. he remembers ian’s _you are so much better than that,_ and hopes that ian meant it. “what happened earlier… that was really big of you. for a second, i was worried you were actually gonna pull the trigger.”

mickey snorts, “why, ‘cause i’m the one prone to murder?” 

they can laugh about that now, at least mostly, and mickey’s glad for the way ian just lightly shoves at him and tells him to shut up. 

a few beats of silence go by—or, as much silence as you can have in the gallagher house: silence between them, with a backdrop of debbie ranting about her stupid dyke drama and tami bickering with lip because they _still_ haven’t gone the fuck home and carl yelling at his video games even though he’s all the way in the goddamn basement—before mickey speaks again. 

“why did you ask me that dumbass question earlier?” he really didn’t mean to make it sound like an insult or accusation, but it comes out that way. something about a coping mechanism, or whatever pansy crap ian told him that one time. 

ian’s hand pauses on his back. “what question?” his hand drops to the mattress then, and mickey does his best to pretend he doesn’t miss it. at least this way ian can’t see his face, since his entire upper body is behind mickey. makes this whole thing a lot fucking easier. 

“if i’d take care of you if you were paralyzed. we’re fucking married.”

“yeah, but.” ian doesn’t finish the sentence, just pulls his arm back entirely. mickey peeks over his shoulder in time to see ian putting his arms behind his head, using them as a pillow. he’s looking up at the ceiling now, away from mickey, so mickey faces forward again. “i dunno. i wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to. i’m a lot to handle even without being paralyzed.”

mickey all but rolls his eyes, just because he doesn’t know how else to process the stab to the heart that ian’s words cause. “haven’t we been over this whole being worthy of love bullshit?”

“yeah.” a pause. “i’m just saying i wouldn’t blame you.”

this time mickey turns completely around, facing ian full on. “would you take care of me if i was paralyzed?” 

“of course i would.”

“because we love each other,” mickey repeats, an echo of the words he said to ian so many years ago, not the first and not the last time that ian felt like too big of a burden to love, “and that means we take care of each other. thick and thin. good times and bad, sickness, health, all that shit.” this isn’t the last time ian will feel this way, either. mickey doubts there will ever be a last time, and it pisses him off, because he wishes he could love ian hard enough to take the pain away even though he’s known for years that that’s not possible. 

a soft smile cross ian’s face, and he reaches out to rest his hand on mickey’s knee. and then they just look at each other, and mickey isn’t quick enough to fill the silence before ian’s doe eyes come back. 

mickey curses inwardly. his distraction tactic had worked briefly, had spun the burden of vulnerability onto ian for a brief moment. but of course, ian is ian, with his stupid big fucking heart and his stupid fucking feelings, and mickey knows that ian cares too much about him to brush him under the rug. 

it’s a good thing, of course it is. mickey’s just not used to having good things. 

“why were you thinking about it?” ian presses, and mickey sighs just a little, looking over to the side to stave off the tears he’s been fighting since he had that gun to terry’s chest. 

and that’s the whole thing, isn’t it? all of it comes back to that fucking gun, and that trigger, and those bullets, and terry. it always comes back to terry fucking milkovich. 

but he doesn’t know how to say that to ian, because ian doesn’t get it. frank isn’t the same. sure, frank is an addict and an alcoholic, a narcissist, emotionally abusive, manipulative, and he knows that frank’s put hands on ian several times. he knows that frank’s probably put hands on the other ones, too, at some point or another. but frank is mostly just an inconvenience; mostly just lingers around the gallagher house, too fucked up to do anything but mooch and create a mess for everyone else to clean up, like a parasite that you just can’t shake. 

terry’s an entirely different thing. and mickey knows that ian’s seen it, too. he knows—god, does he fucking know—that ian’s been a victim of it, too. mickey hates that he can count the times he’s seen ian’s face beaten and bloodied because of terry milkovich. he almost hates that more than he hates what terry did to _him._

but he hates that, too. it’d taken ian to make mickey able to really see it. of course he knew, growing up, that terry was an abusive piece of shit that would kill him if he ever found out mickey was gay. but when you’re a kid and you grow up with that shit and it’s all you’ve ever known, you don’t really realize just how fucked up it is. not until you get far enough away to see it like everyone else sees it, to finally be on the outside looking in, without smoke and mirrors. or maybe that’s just mickey, fuck if he knows. 

point being that mickey’s got no reason to feel so goddamn weird about terry being a cripple, but he does, and he hates it. he should be excited that he finally got what’s been coming to him, should be feeling light with the relief that terry won’t be making any more murder attempts. and he does, kind of. but he feels that other shit, too. 

it’s hard to think of how to put all that shit into words, to explain to someone who doesn’t understand how it could ever be possible to still kind of care about your parent who never gave a single fuck about you, to explain to someone who has seen the abuse firsthand and was held at gunpoint and forced to watch while—

but ian is looking at him the same way he looked at him that day all those years ago, when mickey thought he was gonna bail on ian but then debbie came by and yelled at him and mickey got sober enough to realize that there isn’t anything in the world worth losing ian gallagher over, and he climbed into ian’s bed and said _sorry i’m late—_ and mickey realizes in the moment that he can just say exactly what he’s thinking. 

“i should’ve pulled the fucking trigger,” is what he says first, because he’s always doing that, always masking his vulnerability with those iron walls that ian sees right through. “i don’t know why i couldn’t. it just— seeing him like that, in pain, can’t even move. i couldn’t do it, man.”

ian’s hand tightens on his knee. “i didn’t expect you to.” 

“he’s tried to kill me, and _you,_ several times in the past year. he had no problem pointing a fucking gun at me and doing a goddamn drive-by of our honeymoon suite, so what’s the fucking difference?”

“he’s your dad,” ian shrugs, and mickey hates how fucking simple ian makes it sound. like he perfectly understands something that mickey himself can’t even piece together. “it’s normal, i think, to still love your parents even when they were shitty. fuck, i mean, you know about my mom. she fucked off more times than i can count, tried to kill herself at fucking thanksgiving, and every time she came back she just screwed everyone’s life to hell before fucking off again. and i know that’s nowhere near what terry did to you, but it’s still something, you know? and i still love her. i still miss her.”

mickey blinks at him. “you still miss monica?”

“i think about her everyday,” ian nods, and mickey wonders how the fuck ian grew up the way he did, with the shitty parents he had and the fucked up siblings. he wonders how ian grew up with such a big heart in a neighborhood so fucked up that there aren’t even any dandelions in the pavement cracks. “i know terry was different, but it doesn’t mean that you can’t still care about him. or maybe not care about him, but still care if he dies.”

“i don’t give a fuck about that asshole,” mickey grumbles, and he doesn’t miss the way ian smiles, all shit-eating and smug, and mickey would kiss it off him if he thought ian would let him get away with it. “i don’t want him to die, either. or be fucking… paralyzed, or whatever.”

“that’s okay. that’s good, really. remember what you said about wanting to be better than him? i told you that you are, you’re _so_ much better, and this is what i’m talking about. it’s okay to give a fuck if your dad is hurt or paralyzed, mick. even if he tortured you, even if you feel like you should hate him enough to not give a fuck. there’s no right way to feel.” ian pushes himself to sit up, and slides his hand from mickey’s knee to the crook of his elbow, and then down to hold his hand. “you were a child. his child. what he did to you wasn't your fault, and you didn’t deserve it. and you don’t ever have to forgive him or stop being pissed off about it. but you're also not a bad person for still having human feelings about him. i’d be more concerned if you didn’t give a fuck what happened to him, if i’m being honest.”

mickey smiles this time, huffs a small laugh and clasps his hand over ian’s. “where the hell did you get all that shit from? you sound like fucking dr. phil.”

they laugh together this time, and it’s as if mickey feels the entire room get lighter, feels the tension and the heavyweights bleed right out of the air. maybe not permanently, but mickey will take the temporary relief. he’s learned, over the years, to count his blessings. 

“i’m bipolar, mick,” ian deadpans. “i’ve been institutionalized. you think they give the meds to just anyone? part of my parole agreement was going to mandatory, court-ordered therapy.”

mickey knows that, of course. he remembers how much ian hated going to therapy, how much ian still hates his meds. he remembers how much it had broken his heart to find out that ian was in prison for something he did when he was out of control of his own mind. ian was always too good for that shit. prison was mickey’s game. ian never deserved any part of that. 

but instead of saying all of that, he just leans forward until ian takes the hint and meets him in the middle for a kiss. ian’s hand comes to the back of mickey’s head like it always does, and they kiss with a newfound freedom, the kind of freedom that comes with the knowledge that terry milkovich isn’t posed outside the window with a sniper rifle. 

ian pulls back first, laying back down and pillowing his head on his forearms again. he’s mostly dry from his shower now, only a couple of drops of water still glistening on his abs, and mickey’s ready to shut the fuck up with the pussy talk and get to licking them off. 

but ian’s holding his damn hand again. “you're a good person, mick.”

and mickey knows he really, _really_ isn’t, but it’s nice to know that ian thinks so. 

“don’t ever call me shit like that again, gallagher,” he teases, just to be annoying, because he can’t be too vulnerable for too long. “ruining my fucking reputation with that sappy crap.”

ian smiles, a small one. “asshole.”

that same damn tone from earlier, and mickey can’t help but kiss him again. 

because they’re married now, they’re married and they kiss and they live together and they’re committed and terry fucking milkovich can’t do shit about it. not that mickey really cared what the fuck terry thought, anyway. he gave up on that shit a long time ago, after ian fucked off to the army and mickey thought he was really going to lose him for good. 

it’s crazy how much has changed. mickey can barely remember what it was like to be so young, sneaking into the kash n grab to fuck ian in the back, pretending not to care about ian outside of his dick even when he was falling so hard it scared the shit out of him. ian was so young then. so different. they’ve both changed. 

but ian is still fucking beautiful, still ian fucking gallagher, still the asshole that mickey hunted down with his brothers and still the asshole that mickey kicked geriatric ass over just because he was jealous. he wonders if ian knows how much mickey fucking loved him back then. 

he knows he never said it then, but he says it now. 

“i fucking love you, bitch,” he mumbles into the kiss. 

ian says it back without a second thought. 


End file.
